The Talisman

while a wrestling announcer droned on and on in the background. Orris who had overseen the assassination of Phil Sawyer in Utah (just as he had overseen the assassination of Phil Sawyer’s counterpart, the commoner Prince Philip Sawtelle, in the Territories).

Sloat had a taste for blood, but ultimately he was as allergic to it as Orris was to American food and American air. It was Morgan of Orris, once derided as Morgan Thudfoot, who had always done the deeds Sloat had planned.

My son died; his still lives. Sawtelle’s son died. Sawyer’s still lives. But these things can be remedied. Will be remedied. No Talisman for you, my sweet little friends. You are bound for a radioactive version of Oatley, and you each owe the balance-scales a death. God pounds His nails.

“And if God doesn’t, you may be sure I will,” he said aloud.

The man on the floor moaned again, as if he had heard. Orris took another step toward him, perhaps meaning to kick him awake, and then cocked his head. In the distance he heard hoofbeats, the faint creak and jingle of harness, the hoarse cries of drovers.

That would be Osmond, then. Good. Let Osmond take care of business here—he himself had little interest in questioning a man with a hangover when he knew well enough what the man would have to say.

Orris clumped across to the door, opened it, and looked out on a gorgeous peach-colored Territories sunrise. It was from this direction—the direction of the sunrise—that the sounds of approaching riders came. He allowed himself to drink in that lovely glow for a moment and then turned toward the west again, where the sky was still the color of a fresh bruise. The land was dark . . . except for where the first sunlight bounced off a pair of bright parallel lines.

Boys, you have gone to your deaths, Orris thought with satisfaction . . . and then a thought occurred which brought even more satisfaction: their deaths might already have happened.

“Good,” Orris said, and closed his eyes.

A moment later Morgan Sloat was gripping the handle of the door of Thayer School’s little theater, opening his own eyes, and planning his trip back to the west coast.

It might be time to take a little trip down memory lane, he thought. To a town in California called Point Venuti. A trip back east first, perhaps—a visit to the Queen—and then . . .

“The sea air,” he said to the bust of Pallas, “will do me good.”

He ducked back inside, had another jolt from the small vial in his pocket (hardly noticing the smells of canvas and makeup now), and, thus refreshed, he started back downhill toward his car.

FOUR

THE TALISMAN

34

Anders

1

Jack suddenly realized that, although he was still running, he was running on thin air, like a cartoon character who has time for one surprised double-take before plunging two thousand feet straight down. But it wasn’t two thousand feet. He had time—just—to realize that the ground wasn’t there anymore, and then he dropped four or five feet, still running. He wobbled and might have remained upright, but then Richard came piling into him and they both went tumbling.

“Look out, Jack!” Richard was screaming—he was apparently not interested in taking his own advice, because his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. “Look out for the wolf! Look out for Mr. Dufrey! Look out—”

“Stop it, Richard!” These breathless screams frightened him more than anything else had done. Richard sounded mad, absolutely mad. “Stop it, we’re all right! They’re gone!”

“Look out for Etheridge! Look out for the bugs! Look out, Jack!”

“Richard, they’re gone! Look around you, for Jason’s sake!” Jack hadn’t had a chance to do this himself, but he knew they had made it—the air was still and sweet, the night perfectly silent except for a slim breeze that was blessedly warm.

“Look out, Jack! Look out, Jack! Look out, look out—”

Like a bad echo inside his head, he heard a memory of the dog-boys outside Nelson House chorusing Way-gup, way-gup, way-gup! Pleeze, pleeze, pleeze!

“Look out, Jack!” Richard wailed. His face was slammed into the earth and he looked like an overenthusiastic Moslem determined to get in good with Allah. “LOOK OUT! THE WOLF! PREFECTS! THE HEADMASTER! LOOK O—”

Panicked by the idea that Richard actually had gone crazy, Jack yanked his friend’s head up by the back of his collar and slapped his face.

Richard’s words were cut cleanly off. He gaped at Jack, and Jack saw the shape of his own hand rising on Richard’s pale cheek, a dim red tattoo. His shame was replaced by an urgent curiosity to know just where they were. There was light; otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to see that mark.

A partial answer to the question came from inside him—it was certain and unquestionable . . . at least, as far as it went.

The Outposts, Jack-O. You’re in the Outposts now.

But before he could spend any time mulling that over, he had to try to get Richard shipshape.

“Are you all right, Richie?”

He was looking at Jack with numb, hurt surprise. “You hit me, Jack.”